Mr. Maren had provided himself with matches and a candle.  With some difficulty, begotten of his excitement, he made a light, and they proceeded to explore the place, passing from room to room.  Everything was in orderly arrangement, as it had been left by the sheriff; nothing had been disturbed.  A light coating of dust was everywhere.  A back door was partly open, as if by neglect, and their first thought was that the authors of the awful revelry might have escaped.  The door was opened, and the light of the candle shone through upon the ground.  The expiring effort of the previous night’s storm had been a light fall of snow; there were no footprints; the white surface was unbroken.  They closed the door and entered the last room of the four that the house contained—­that farthest from the road, in an angle of the building.  Here the candle in Mr. Maren’s hand was suddenly extinguished as by a draught of air.  Almost immediately followed the sound of a heavy fall.  When the candle had been hastily relighted young Mr. Galbraith was seen prostrate on the floor at a little distance from the others.  He was dead.  In one hand the body grasped a heavy sack of coins, which later examination showed to be all of old Spanish mintage.  Directly over the body as it lay, a board had been torn from its fastenings in the wall, and from the cavity so disclosed it was evident that the bag had been taken.

Another inquest was held:  another post-mortem examination failed to reveal a probable cause of death.  Another verdict of “the visitation of God” left all at liberty to form their own conclusions.  Mr. Maren contended that the young man died of excitement.

A FRUITLESS ASSIGNMENT

Henry Saylor, who was killed in Covington, in a quarrel with Antonio Finch, was a reporter on the Cincinnati Commercial.  In the year 1859 a vacant dwelling in Vine street, in Cincinnati, became the center of a local excitement because of the strange sights and sounds said to be observed in it nightly.  According to the testimony of many reputable residents of the vicinity these were inconsistent with any other hypothesis than that the house was haunted.  Figures with something singularly unfamiliar about them were seen by crowds on the sidewalk to pass in and out.  No one could say just where they appeared upon the open lawn on their way to the front door by which they entered, nor at exactly what point they vanished as they came out; or, rather, while each spectator was positive enough about these matters, no two agreed.  They were all similarly at variance in their descriptions of the figures themselves.  Some of the bolder of the curious throng ventured on several evenings to stand upon the doorsteps to intercept them, or failing in this, get a nearer look at them.  These courageous men, it was said, were unable to force the door by their united strength, and always were hurled from the steps by some invisible agency and severely injured; the door immediately afterward opening, apparently of its own volition, to admit or free some ghostly guest.  The dwelling was known as the Roscoe house, a family of that name having lived there for some years, and then, one by one, disappeared, the last to leave being an old woman.  Stories of foul play and successive murders had always been rife, but never were authenticated.